


A Devil of a Story

by bironic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bondage, Double Penetration, F/M, Nonconathon Treat, Orgasm Denial, Original Character(s), Seduction, Size Kink, Writers, elements of bestiality, elements of stalking, irreverent treatment of biblical character, mention of BDSM, reference to mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24897511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bironic/pseuds/bironic
Summary: "May I tempt you with visions of free-flowing prose?" the devil asked. "Shall I promise you riches and an ever-adoring readership?"Then he laughed, rich and full-throated. "I'm kidding. I'm just here to fuck you."
Relationships: Satan/Porn Writer
Comments: 9
Kudos: 111
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	A Devil of a Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonconamod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonconamod/gifts).



> For the prompt: "Satan noncons porn writer (M/F)."

Meg McClaron, otherwise known as V. K. Scarlette, made it 24 hours before she caved and logged into her Amazon account. Surely holding out for a whole day before checking the online reviews for her latest self-published erotic novella deserved some kind of award.

"Deliciously twisted," read the first comment. "So wrong, yet so good," wrote another reader. Meg did a tiny chair dance. There was the usual collection of trolls—"You're going to Hell," etc.—but at least this time someone else had responded, "If Scarlette's going to hell, then I'm following her there."

The download count wasn't bad so far, either. Penny by penny, she might enjoy another chunk of spending money this month. 

Meg closed her browser, satisfied. A good start, and excellent motivation for writing today's 1,000 words. She opened Word—

—and something electric popped behind her.

Meg flinched so badly that her desk rattled. The sound transitioned to a gaseous hiss, then trailed off. Heart pounding, she swung around to see what on Earth had happened.

A man—red—horns—devil—thing—stood in the middle of her living room.

Meg blinked. The figure was still there. Lambent eyes, crimson skin, slick black hair, neatly trimmed beard. He wore a dapper gray suit that flattered his burly figure, his hands folded in front of him. The air in her apartment had taken on an ozone tang. Or was that sulfur?

"What?" she said. Her brain was stuck.

"Hello, Meg," the hallucination replied. Crooned, really. His voice was low, resonant. A tail flicked back and forth behind him, pointed like an arrow at the end. Because of course he had a tail to complement the black horns that curled up from just above his temples.

"What," she said again.

"I'm your biggest fan," said the devil in her living room. He lowered his chin and smiled, and the curl of his lips and the gleam in his eyes somehow embodied sin itself.

Meg's brain came back online enough for her to realize she was dreaming. She shook her head, and when that didn't work, she pinched her arm, hard. 

It hurt. 

She didn't wake up.

Okay, not a dream. So…

Meg stood. Eyeing the very real-looking hallucination, she began edging her way along the wall toward the couch, where she'd left her phone.

The devil didn't lose his grin as he watched her. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm calling the urgent care center," she said. "I'm obviously having some kind of psychotic break." She wasn't aware of a history of that sort of mental illness in her family, but, well, here she was.

"I choose to be flattered," replied the manifestation of her malfunctioning brain, "since you imply that someone with my dashing good looks and impeccable attire cannot be real."

Just a little further… 

Suddenly the devil stood right in front of her. Meg made a desperate lunge for her phone, but he caught her hand and used her momentum to twirl her around like a dance partner.

"Ah ah ah," he chided.

Dizzied, she tried to pull free, but his grip was too strong. Her breath came faster as she stared up at him. Could a hallucination feel solid like this? Could it smell like rotten eggs and thunderstorms?

"I do so love the scent of mortal fear," he murmured. When he touched his tongue to his lower lip, she discovered that it was forked.

Her mouth moved, but she didn't know what to say.

"The great V. K. Scarlette, at a loss for words?" he teased. "Perhaps I can help. ' _She swallowed hard, her hands bound above her, her legs spread wide, as Luke stroked his throbbing manhood and raked his eyes over her yearning body_.'"

A line from the first sex scene of her first story. Some detached part of her mind noted that her writing skills had improved since then.

The devil placed his free hand between Meg's shoulder blades and pulled her to his chest. She took a sharp breath and craned her neck back. His own… manhood… nudged her belly.

"Or how about, ' _A small crowd had gathered around the stocks in their dark little corner of the club. Bent in half, her head and hands held fast by the wooden enclosures, Emma could not help but display herself to them. As Luke raised the paddle to strike her glowing bottom once more, she was overcome with desire and delicious shame_ ,'" the devil—the maybe probably actually somehow real even though she wasn't sure she even believed in him devil—recited from memory, from the sequel.

He let go of her wrist and slid both hands down to her ass. Meg shoved away from him, or tried to. They grappled. A few confusing moments later, she found herself with her back to his chest, pinned by his muscled arms below her breasts. 

His body was harder and hotter than an ordinary man's. That wasn't the only reason she started to sweat.

"I confess I have on occasion imagined myself in Luke's role while placing you in Emma's position," he said. "It's not a stretch to consider Luke a nickname for Lucifer, after all."

She found her voice, or at least a quiet and shaky version of it. "You're—?"

"I am one of Him."

The devil—who was real, and who read her books, and who seemed to be trying to seduce her—nuzzled her hair.

"I'm not Emma," Meg protested. "Or Katelynne, or Daisie. I'm just Meg. I'm an assistant HR manager."

"Oh, I know all about you," he replied. "I know you've been having those naughty fantasies since you were a child." 

Her heart skipped a beat. He nipped at her ear.

"I know that V. K. stands for 'very kinky.'" 

She'd never told anyone that. How on Earth…? 

"I know none of your little boyfriends has ever truly scratched that itch for you."

He loosened an arm to cup one breast and tweak her nipple. She jolted in his grasp.

"I know _everything_." 

He slid his hand between her legs.

She squirmed, equal parts terrified and turned on. "What do you want?"

"Why, I want to tell you how much I enjoyed your new book." He undercut his innocent tone by pressing his "enjoyment" into the small of her back. She shied away from it only to realize that meant leaning into his exploring fingers. "And, of course, I want you."

This couldn't be happening. "What if I don't w-want you?"

"No matter. I shall have you anyway."

He spun her by the hips and gave her a push that sent her sprawling on her back on the couch. Before she could sit up, he'd stripped off her shorts and underwear. 

"What the—" was the only protest she had time to voice before he grabbed her legs and hauled them up, her calves over his shoulders. The blood rushed to her face from embarrassment as much as gravity. It was all she could do to brace herself on the couch so she didn't sprain her neck. She couldn't reach him easily enough to push him away.

So there she was, half naked and upside down in her own living room, the devil holding her tight by the thighs as he took a deep breath between them, his nostrils flaring.

"Oh, my God," she moaned, torn between staring at the incomprehensible sight and hiding behind her arm until it was all over.

"There's no need for that kind of language," he chastened her. "If you want to swear, may I suggest… cunt?" And he lowered his head to suckle at her.

Meg whined. She didn't know which way was up, and she wasn't on board with what was happening here, but she'd never felt anything like this, expert movements coming at her from all directions. It took a while for the sensations to resolve into individual elements—the furnace heat of his breath, the prickle of his beard—and it wasn't until he pushed his tongue inside her that she realized each half of the forked tip could move independently.

Disbelief and arousal and fear swirled around and came out as, "No." She started to get wet despite herself.

She tossed her head—not unlike many of her heroines, she couldn't help but notice—and her elbow knocked into something small and hard.

Her phone.

The devil had closed his eyes for the moment as he devoured her. Meg pulled herself together enough to wrangle the phone into her hand and try to swipe the emergency icon. The first time, she missed. The second time, she fumbled the phone. She stretched her other arm over to do it properly.

Her phone vanished in a puff of smoke. The devil slid free of her with a lewd slurp.

"Am I not holding your attention?" he asked. His lips shone. "Do we need to kick this up a notch?"

"No," she said quickly, not eager to find out what he meant. "I'm sorry."

"Lying is an admirable habit," he said and dropped her legs. She scrambled to the far end of the couch as best she could with her legs half-asleep.

With another sulfurous _pop_ , the gray suit and oxfords disappeared. The devil stood before her buck naked, chiseled like a woodcut, his palms out at his sides as he invited her to admire. An uncut, scarlet cock as thick as her wrist rose proud from a thatch of dark hair.

"Oh, fuck," she whimpered.

"' _Katelynne would have licked her lips at the sight of his forbidden desire if the gag hadn't prevented her_ ,'" he quoted.

"That's… not," she said, unable to look away from the size of the thing. "No way. No."

"May I tempt you with visions of free-flowing prose, immunity from writer's block, a continuous fount of plots that enrapture and characters who leap off the page?" he asked. "Shall I promise you riches and an ever-adoring readership? Do you wish for a paramour who can fulfill your every desire?"

Meg paused. On the one hand, a literal monstrosity. On the other hand, the chance to make her dreams come true.

The devil laughed, rich and full-throated. "I'm kidding. I'm just here to fuck you."

Son of a—

He grabbed for her, and once more, Meg proved no match for his size and strength. He was right; this was exactly the sort of thing she described with great relish in her stories, and it could have been exciting in reality if only they'd talked this over first, if only she could be sure to expect pleasure and no more than the modicum of pain that made the pleasure all the sharper. As it was, though, her heart throbbed in her throat with at least as much fear as exhilaration as he hip-checked the couch away from the wall and bent her over the back of it. 

Her toes barely touched the floor. The devil's crotch pressed into her ass. He wrestled her shirt over her head despite her struggles and pinched open the clasp on her bra. Then he held her there, her face buried in the cushion, one wrist in each of his implacable fists.

"I'm a particular fan of the scene in your new book in which Lorenzo torments Daisie with a series of increasingly wicked implements while she lies bound in a position not dissimilar to this," he said. "All we're missing, now…"

Something wound around her ankles and tugged them apart. When she tried to close her legs, the bonds resisted. The devil let go of her arms, and this time she could see the culprits: smooth, braided ropes that looped around her wrists of their own accord and tethered themselves to the legs of the couch. She was stretched out, most of her weight across her hips, on display like Emma in the fake stocks or gymnast Daisie tied over the pommel horse.

Only then, naked and defenseless, did it occur to Meg that she could shout for help. Surely someone in the neighboring apartments was home. She couldn't answer the phone or unlock the door if anyone knocked, but if they were concerned enough, they might call building security.

She opened her mouth and took a breath. 

The devil looped her shirt between her jaws and tied it behind her head, thwarting her attempt.

"There," he said. "Now, shall I paddle you like Luke paddled Emma?" He stroked her ass cheek. 

She flushed and shook her head.

"No? But it would be such fun to attempt to turn your skin as red as mine." This time he gave her a smack. She jumped. "Alas. Then I suppose it's penetration time, although I'm afraid all I have to offer is this."

His cock bobbed between her legs.

"No," she managed around the gag. She tried to pull her legs closed again, to no avail. "No no no no—"

"Music to my ears," the devil said, and, spreading her open with his thumbs, he began to press his way in.

Meg bucked in her bonds. Too big, too big, she couldn't, it wouldn't, but either he used some kind of infernal magic or else she was more stretchable than she knew, because with a series of short, slow, just-rough-enough slides, he crammed some immense portion of that hellish cock into her. 

" _Nnngh_ ," she said around the makeshift gag. She was going to burst.

"Delectable." He curled his hands around the back of the couch and, without further warning, started nailing her into it.

Holy shit. It felt like a dildo on a jackhammer. She blinked into the cushion, stunned. She'd never believed sensations this intense existed outside purple prose. If he hadn't been gripping the couch for counterforce, he'd have fucked her halfway across the room by now. 

"' _Emma writhed in her bonds for all she was worth as Luke pistoned into her_ ,'" the devil narrated over the mortifying squish of her cunt and slap of his balls.

He adjusted his stance and started hitting her G-spot with every stroke.

" _Ah_ —"

She'd barely begun to wrap her mind and body around this whole situation when something tickled her asshole. She tried to close her legs again on instinct; she'd never let anyone play there besides herself. What was it, anyway? His finger? No, she could still feel his hands at her sides. 

Whatever it was wriggled its way inside. It was hard to tell, given the cock plowing in and out of her, not to mention being mercilessly slammed between his hips and the couch, but it seemed flared, widening just to the point of pain before allowing her muscles to close around a skinny base. 

Or not a base: a cord? It slithered along her inner thigh, moving the thing in her ass around and in and out and up and down.

Oh, fuck. He was sodomizing her with the tip of his tail.

" _Mmmph_ ," she tried again, meaning either "stop" or "don't stop." 

"Not enough for you? Insatiable little naughty Meg. You do me proud." He wedged a hand between her pubic bone and the couch and rubbed her clit. It felt better than she wanted to admit. The side of the sofa he'd let go of started edging forward with his thrusts. She was going to bruise something spectacular later.

The devil's thrusts grew irregular. He had to stop for breath more than once when he said, "' _Emma strained toward completion, filled and filled and filled with Luke's tongue, Luke's cock, Luke's plug, before she climaxed with a scream that shook the rafters_.'" 

Meg wasn't Emma, but there was a chance she was going to find out whether an orgasm could make her scream like that.

The devil yanked free of her.

His cock, his tail, his hand, all gone. She would have stumbled if she hadn't been held fast. Furious wet sounds left nothing to the imagination as he jerked himself to the finish line. 

With a noise that fell somewhere between groan and roar, he came all over her tailbone. And ass cheek. And lower back. Hot jizz was sliding down the backs of her thighs by the time he finally finished.

Eugh. It felt disgusting, but she was close enough to an orgasm of her own that being offended could wait. Rendered shameless by the prospect, she wiggled to alert him to her predicament.

"Mm," he sighed. She could hear him stretch behind her. "Not bad, little writer."

" _Nnnnnnn_ ," she complained.

"Ah, yes," he said. "My apologies."

With a now-familiar _pop_ , her bonds and gag disappeared. But the devil made no move to finish her off. She throbbed, empty and wound up and more than a little appalled by it.

Meg lowered herself onto unsteady feet, still leaning on the back of the couch for support. Vaguely, she noted that her clothes had been folded into a pile on the cushion and her phone placed like a cherry on top. A cherry on a sundae of confusion and sexual frustration.

A dollop of come hit the floor. She glanced down and did a double-take: it was black, more like crude oil than semen.

The devil sauntered around to face her. He'd restored his suit, and the smile he now sported was the very definition of wicked.

"You," she breathed.

He winked. "At your service."

"You wouldn't." But even as she said it, she knew he would. He was the literal devil.

"After all I did for you," he said in mock complaint. "Just think what wonderful fodder I've provided for your next story."

He tipped an imaginary hat to her and vanished.


End file.
